


Etching Details

by cynosure_phrases, Wrenegade (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Falling In Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Secret Messages, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Wrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson gets bored. Common with most students, but especially in this one specific class he has really no interest in whatsoever, so what does he do? He does what any aspiring medical doctor would do in such a subject as pointless as English - write on his desk. </p><p>~</p><p>Like all great stories before it, it began with a Hello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Point of View.

     _Rain drizzled outside leaving a coat_

John erased coat.

     _Rain drizzled outside leaving a jumper_

John harshly erased jumper while muttering to himself, "Why the fuck would it be a jumper?"

     _Rain drizzled outside leaving a sheet of_

John glanced around the room. He didn't know what the hell to write next.

     _Rain drizzled outside leaving a sheet of a moist_

John scrunched his face as the read the word to himself.  _Moist._

_Rain drizzled outside leaving a sheet of a moist texture on the surface of the earth._

He dropped his pencil on his desk, giving up on the poem as the rest of the class furiously wrote into their notebooks. John knew he couldn't write for his life, so he didn't even try. 

    Class still had 20 minutes. 20 minutes that the teacher would leave them alone and allow them to work on their idiotic poetry assignment. John scoffed at having to write such _boring_ and  _cliché_ words jumbled together to make them sound as if they flow like a bloody river. 

    How the hell do words flow?

    They're either two things; sound or sketches. Either you hear them, see them, or write them. They don't "flow". They aren't liquid. They're just another little thing about life.

    John picked up his pencil again and began to twirl it in his fingers. 

     _Words._

_Words words words._

He kept scribbling the word words around his page until it was practically a large shaded, well, word.

    Now he was back to square one.

    He turned to a new page, and started experimentally writing combinations of words.

     _Gravy potato._

_Bug polish._

_Misty trolley._

_Handbag extraordinaire._

He couldn't think of anything else to write.

    Out of sheer curiosity, he begins writing on the desk. First, lightly, meaning to erase it. Then, thinking of trying something new, he pushed on his pencil harder, making the word darker and darker until what was written was as clear as day. By the time that the teacher had allowed them to leave, there was a new installment on the small desk. A small, dark, and little word.

     **Hello.**

* * *

Now, John didn't really expect much when he went into class the next day. Just the teacher droning on, and his forgotten note erased like it was never there. He'd worked on his poem a bit, but it was more of a jumble of words like 

_Condescending ladybugs drink from coffee mugs._

_  
_That was how his creative process worked, and his teacher sure as hell didn't appreciate it. So, as he sat down, he was just expecting another dreary, oh-so cliche rainy day, but he was surprised as he saw a note written on his desk in an unfamiliar scrawl, but it was still as clear as day.

**_Hello._  **

Now, that certainly wasn't John's handwriting. It was too... curvy. He couldn't explain it. Couldn't explain how another simple hello could fill him with so much hope.  Who could it be? He asked himself. Nobody he knew. All he knew was their unfamiliar handwriting and that this person most likely sat at John Watson's desk in any other period but 4th. Shrugging inwardly, he simply wrote back.

**How are you?**

_Stupid John, you don't know the person. It's not like you're talking to your neighbor._

**What's your name?**

No, that sounded too stalker-ish.

  **I'm John.**

_There, not saying too much but not saying too little while not being stalker-ish either._

Now all he had to do was wait for a reply. 


	2. Sherlock's Point of View

     _Boring._

_The teacher is having an affair. His wife doesn't know, but neither does his boyfriend. The wife has her suspicions, but she won't have a valid argument until he leaves her sometime over the next month._

Sherlock barely listened to the teacher lazily re-explain the outline of the poem. The words meant nothing to Sherlock, as for all he knew he could write down a list of long words and the idiot teaching the class would call it extraordinary.

    His eyes scanned his desk, not having a single thing to do until his eyes met a small mark upon it. Upon closer investigation, he read the word that was scratched on it.

     **Hello.**

 Sherlock was slightly shocked. He knew that nobody else sat in his seat besides a student in the class before him. The back wasn't a very popular area, obviously, but it had never occurred to him that the other student would try to socialize.

    He stared at the darkened lines again again.

     **Hello.**

That was it.

     **Hello.**

Nothing long, nothing too extravagant, just one, small, five letter word.

     **Hello.**

Sherlock quirked at eyebrow, curious in how he should react. He questioned asking why, but it was obvious. The student that sat in the same spot that Sherlock sat in and was obviously bored; a common trait that Sherlock could neither argue nor ignore.

    Knowing he could obviously not ignore it, he rubbed at the words with his eraser, removing the marks for the desk. Then, in his own scrawl, he created his own one, small, five letter word response.

     _ **Hello.**_  

 


	3. Mixed Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desk texting: A proper way to meet someone new.

     **I'm John.**

     _Simple name,_  Sherlock thought to himself as he read the small message written on his desk before scribbling back his own.

     _ **I'm Sherlock.**_

-

     ** _I'm_ _Sherlock._**

  _What kind of name is that?_  John asked himself, reading the two words to himself. 

    **Sherlock? That's not a typical name.**

-

    **_Brilliant, John._**

     **Hey, I just met you and we're already fighting like an old married couple.**

-

     _ **We've just met, you're missing that**   **part.**_

**We've just met? We've known each other for practically a week now, I wouldn't call that just meeting.**

-

    They were on each other's minds all weekend.

-

     _ **In a total, we've only shared very few sentences with one another. I would simply call you an acquaintance.**_

 __ **An acquaintance? Wow, Sherlock. I am hurt.**

-

    **_I would apologize if necessary and/or forced, but since neither is the case, I must ask why._** _ **  
**_

**I definitely wouldn't call you can acquaintance.**

-

     _ **Why so? You obviously aren't one to trust easily. Is this due to your alcoholic father or abandoning mother?**_

 __ **...** **  
**

**How the hell do you know about my parents?**

-

     _ **No, I refuse to tell.**_

 __ **Why not? Isn't it you who said we're practically strangers?**

-

     _ **If I tell you, you might not want to talk to me anymore.**_

 __ **Where the hell did you get this idea?!**

-

    John grew worried over the next two days.

-

     _ **Because if I tell you, you might not see me as another student with a pencil scribbling on a desk.**_

 __ **You're already more than that. As far as I can tell, you're kind of a prick, and I mean that in the most caring way.**

-

     ** _If I tell you, I might loose you._**

**If you don't tell me, you might loose me, and as far as I can tell, I am your only form of entertainment right now.**

-

     _ **On the contrary, I quite enjoy scientific and chemical experiments.**_

 __ **You might enjoy them, but you can't exactly perform many of them in the back of an English classroom, can you?**

-

     _ **You seem to underestimate me, John.**_

 __ **Oh really? Prove it.**

-

    When John sat in his desk the next day, there was a piece of string taped to the desk with the end swinging off. After he read Sherlock's note, it all made sense.

     _ **Check what's on the end. Don't be boring and act too surprised.**_

 __ Lifting the string, it pulled up a small vial hanging from the end. As John could clearly see, there was a tiny ape's finger floating in the formaldehyde. John didn't know how to react. He didn't know whether to leave it on the desk or to take it and examine whatever Sherlock had left for him.

    Sliding it into his pocket, he wrote of his note of the day.

     **Thanks for the present. I wish I could give you something, but I don't have anything on hand, so I drew you a person.**

Next to the note was the best stick figure John could draw.

-

    Sherlock's arm hurt as well has his left cheek and right shin. He was confronted by an angered student in the hall before class had begun. He'd deduced that the student's current girlfriend was cheating on him and that she had been keeping it from him for months. Sherlock meant it in the best way, trying to save time for the student since he obviously wouldn't find out unless he walked into them in a compromising position.

    He took deep, shuttering breaths as he sat back in his seat with his eyes jammed shut and hands shaking.

     _Idiots._ He thought to himself as he hunched in his seat.  _They don't even know what's good for them._

Running a quick hand through his hair, Sherlock gathered his wits together again, forcing the memory of what had just happened away. He told himself that they couldn't get to him. He told himself that he would be stronger in the long run, and that everybody will be deceased eventually anyway, yet all of these didn't help as much as they could.

     _Cold. I am cold. Ice cold. Nobody can get to me. I am better. I might be alone, but I am not lonely._

That was when he remembered.

    Scanning the desk to the string, he found it draped over the desk, tape rolled around the fuzz of wool. John had obviously taken the specimen, just as Sherlock had hoped.

     **Thanks for the present. I wish I could give you something, but I don't have anything on hand, so I drew you a person.**

Sherlock warily smiled at the small stick figure looking back at him.

     _I might be alone, but I have John._


End file.
